Aleas struggled to draw his own steel. The sight in his left eye was bad – there was a splinter there for sure, which he could feel every time he blinked. He freed his blade and jabbed without aim.
Behind, he heard Baracha shouting at his captive. 'The number!' he was demanding.
'Push,' Ash encouraged the young apprentice, leaning into the effort. The door closed by another fraction.
More hands gripped at the closing edges. The Acolyte in the gap was either unconscious or dead, and those behind were using him now as both shield and leverage. Ash was meanwhile making a fine mess with the point of his blade. Blood jetted and pooled on the floor; Aleas slipped on it, fumbled to stay fixed to the door handle, dropped his sword in the process from his greasy hand. A burning pain slashed along one cheek, and he dodged his head aside, feeling wetness there. He tightened his grip against the door handle. and instinctively batted aside a blade he did not even see.
'Master!' he hollered, turning his head to the Alhazii.
Baracha had a hold of the man he was interrogating and was panting deeply only a millimetre from his face. The man was no Acolyte at all, but a priest of elderly years, with a bald pate and white hairs sprouting from his flaring nostrils.
'You'll get nothing, I tell you, nothing at all out of me.'
'No?' replied Baracha, as he hiked up the priest's robe and worked his hand beneath it.
Across from Aleas, Ash tumbled away from the door.
Aleas yelled as his hand lashed out to grab the suddenly vacated handle. The doors slipped wider again, allowing more shoulders and arms to gain leverage. Aleas roared for new strength, fought to keep the gap from widening any further. This is it, he thought, expecting a knife in his ribs at any instant. We never stood a chance.
The priest bumped against his back in his struggle with Baracha. 'Stop that,' the old man was shouting in a clipped accent.
'Master!' Aleas tried again. A face cursed at him, thrust so close he could smell the garlic on its breath. Above it, a length of wood was being forced between the doors, then someone else began to lever them open.
Baracha ignored him. 'The number, or I rip them right off of you.'
Ash was down; he was conscious, but moving as though drunk.
'Stop it!' shrilled the priest in a voice that verged on hysteria. Then he screamed with all his might.
'The number!' Baracha raged.
'Four-nine-four-one! Four-nine-four-one!' The priest's awful squeal filled the small space, and then it ceased abruptly. Aleas felt him slide down against his legs.
Baracha tossed something ragged and bloody to the floor. Bile rose in Aleas's throat. He didn't have time to linger on it, though, for a knife was snaking about his stomach, trying to find a way through all the gear slung about him.
Baracha leaned over Ash and thumbed the number lock on the door.
'Hurry,' Aleas growled.
'It doesn't work. The fool lied to me.'
'The lever! Push the bloody lever!'
With a shudder, the climbing box began to rise. Shouts of pain accompanied the sudden withdrawal of limbs from the doors, which did not move along with the carriage but fell away as they rose.
Aleas sagged back against one of the walls. He was sheeting sweat. Three gulps of air and then he pushed himself off the wall, and knelt down beside Ash.
'What's wrong with him?' Baracha asked.
Aleas saw the knife dangling from the old man's thigh, and inspected the gash. 'It's only a flesh wound,' he announced. Carefully, he drew the blade free. Ash gasped.
Baracha sniffed at the blade.
'Poison,' he said. 'Hurry boy, an antidote.'
Aleas gathered his wits. This was no time to fall apart.
He grabbed the medico hanging over his hip. 'Which one?'
'All of them.'
Aleas lifted all four vials of antidote and poured a few drops from each one between Ash's lips.
The climbing box clattered to a stop. Baracha jumped over to the new set of doors, grasped the handles to keep them closed. No one attempted to open them, though.
Aleas rubbed at his inflamed eye. He lifted the flask of water he carried and tilted his head back to wash it clear. He blinked, and repeated the treatment. It seemed to work. He then took a long drink.
'Rush oil,' Ash rasped from the floor.
Aleas knelt. He took a small clay pot from the medico, peeled off its paper stopper, dabbed some of the waxy cream on his finger, and smeared it on to Ash's lips.
The sparkle quickly returned to the old man's eyes. 'Help me to my feet,' he ordered.
'Easy,' said Aleas, helping him up. 'You've been poisoned.'
'I know. I can feel it.'
Baracha was listening against the double doors. 'How do you feel?' he asked quietly, turning. Ash offered a quick shake of his head.
'I think it's crushed hallow seed,' said Aleas, holding the poisoned blade close to his nose.
'Very rare,' commented Ash.
'And difficult to flush. We must purge you, once we get out of here.'
'Are you both ready?' asked Baracha.
Ash recovered his sword from the floor. He cast free his heavy robe and used it to clean the hilt, and then the curved length of its blade. He looked like a farmer cleaning his scythe.
A sharp pain struck the old man as he finished. He stooped, clutching his side as he sucked in a lungful of breath. It took an obvious force of will to straighten his back.
He finally nodded.
Baracha slid open the doors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Killing Kirkus felt sick. He stood by the heavy vault door, his ear pressed against it. He could hear only silence beyond.
They were coming for him, and he knew it, and the knowing made him want to run. But run where? He was at the very top of the sky-steeple here; the only way out was down through the very people who were trying to kill him.
He could only hope the Temple guards would stop them. They would stop them, he was certain of it, for they had been trained since childhood for such an event. But how, he wondered again, had these people even made it so far?
Kirkus pushed away from the door and strode back into the Storm Chamber. He held a short-sword in his hand. He hefted it, swung it once, twice, through the air.
He would not need it, Kirkus told himself. They would never get inside.
Manse, the old priest, stood waiting in the centre of the room with hands in sleeves and head bowed. A mute servant tended the fire, though occasionally she glanced towards Kirkus.
'Both of you, to the door,' Kirkus instructed. 'Inform me if anything occurs.'
He ignored them as they scurried past him. He prowled the room, stopping before the window glass. He pressed his forehead against its coolness. At this height he was above the fog; the effect was that of the tower rising above a sea of clouds, with other towers elsewhere, poking through here and there, like islands.
He heard a shout even through the thick glass, carried up from one of the windows on the floor below. Again his stomach quailed.
Kirkus had only truly feared for his life once before now, and that had been several years ago during his first purging. He had broken halfway through that week-long ritual; in no way had he been able to summon the will to carry on.
His grandmother had come to him then, offering water as she sponged the foul mess from his face. At last he had stopped shaking. His tears had ceased to flow. He had looked up at her, still seeing phantoms. He knew he was close to losing his mind.
Why is the divine flesh so strong? she had whispered into his ear.
He had only croaked in response, unable to speak.
Tell me! she demanded, her voice lashing him like a whip.
Because… it does not suffer… from weakness, he had recited, barely able to breathe the words.